Page 80 of XO Karma

He raised us to be hunters. I just never realized the kind of hunters he was raising us to be. Not until the summer before senior year of college.

And for that, I will never forgive him.

As I force the phone back in my pocket, the front door of the bar bursts open, and Lily stumbles out. Her eyes are wild as she glances both ways, then bolts down the street.

What is she⁠—

Two burly guys appear, and I curse as they spot Lily, then sprint after her.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath and mount my bike. Within seconds, I’m zooming after, an arm’s reach from her. She glances over, her face slacking when she realizes it’s me, and I’ll save that little feeling of pleasure at her relief of seeing me for later.

Slowing to a roll, I place a foot on the ground as Lily catches up to me. She grips my shoulder and mounts the bike in record speed, throwing her arms around my waist. “Go, go, go!”

Tires screech as I rev the gas, the bike vibrating beneath us as it takes off. An unmistakable bang fills the air, and I accelerate, my heart pounding erratically. Was Lily shot? Her arms are tight around my torso, which is a good sign, but I won’t be able to breathe until I confirm she’s not bleeding out.

Traffic is heavy, and I weave in and out, road rules be damned, blowing through two red lights until I’m positive we’re far enough away. At the third red light, I finally stop, turning to get a brief view of her, and ask urgently, “Were you shot?”

“No.” She shakes her head, and it eases a fraction of the gnawing ache inside.

We’re ten minutes from my house, but I make it there in five, not stopping until I pull the bike into the garage and out of view in case, for some godforsaken reason, those asshats are able to trace it to this street.

Lily dismounts, and I follow suit, rushing her inside.

Once the door is shut, she snatches off the wig, her blonde-and-pink frazzled hair tumbling down. When I catch sight of her face, anger coils in my gut. She may not have been shot, but she’s definitely injured. Bruises and dried blood cover her body. A particularly nasty one is forming on her face.

“I’m going to kill them,” I promise, reaching out and running my thumb along a cut on her jawline, and she winces, pulling away. “Every single one.”

Her chest heaves as she attempts to steady her breathing. She tosses her large bag near the front entryway. Her boots clack against the hardwood as she walks through the house familiarly towards the living room. I know she’s only aware of the layout due to her stalking tendencies, but I’ll admit I enjoy seeing her comfortable in my space.

She sits on the edge of the couch arm, exhaling loudly. “I’m fine.”

My lips part, eyes sweeping her body, every cut, red mark, and soon-to-be bruise only fueling the rumbling fire within me. “You are not fine.” On her neck is an unmistakable splotchy bruise. He’s fucking dead. “Is that a hickey?!” Dead a hundred times over. My mind spirals, fantasizing of all the ways to dispose of his useless corpse.

Lily pulls her hair over her shoulders, hiding the mark. “That is so not important right now.”

“Feels important,” I growl.

She rolls her eyes. “Anyways, in case you were wondering, Vetrel and his asshats will not be terrorizing his tenants anymore. Matter of fact, he won’t be terrorizing anyone in Cleosville.”

“I find it hard to believe that man would agree so easily.”

“I was very convincing,” she says, and my curiosity heightens.

“Lily, what the hell did you do?”

“Simple.” She reaches behind her and pulls a gun out of her waistband. Every hair on my arms stands. I hate guns. Another piece of baggage from my raging daddy issues. “I told him he better never squeeze any of his tenants for money again.” She aims the gun directly below my belt, and I freeze. “Or I’d shoot his dick off.” She smiles, faking a kickback for dramatic effect.

“Okay there, sharpshooter.” I step closer and gently lower the pistol with my hand. “While I appreciate your methods, I’m going to need you to stop pointing that at my dick.”

She laughs, leaning forward, and sets it on the coffee table with a clank. “We should dispose of it anyways. It’ll probably match ballistics for about a hundred cold cases.”

“What? I thought you’ve never⁠—”

Her glare silences me. “It’s Vetrel’s, you dipshit.”

I rub my temples. “You stole his gun?”

“And his dignity, I’d bet,” she says with a satisfied smile, entirely oblivious to the tornado of panic she’s causing inside me with each new piece of information.